


Longing, Bright and Haunting

by AceQueenKing



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: F/M, Overstimulation, Pegging, Pining, Premature Ejaculation, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-10-26 10:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20740379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: He offered her his heart and his soul, and prepared for failure; that she would not take his offer to re-address the wrongs he had inflicted upon her in kidnapping her as he had. What he offered was simple: rather than let him take her virginity, he would allow her to take his. A way, he thought, to make up for wrongs committed, to even the score.He had not expected her to take him up on it.





	Longing, Bright and Haunting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LuciferxDamien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciferxDamien/gifts).

In retrospect, he never should have married a daughter of Zeus.

He had thought it would be a proper thing, a simple thing: a way of tying his rather mercurial brother’s realm to his own. He had looked at Demeter’s daughter, stunning as she danced in the sun, liquid honey in her eyes and lightning in her smile, and he had said: _This one. Please._

Zeus had shrugged and given her over, and he had taken. Taken her under the earth, taken her flowers, taken her hand, taken her life with three, simple drops of pomegranate red, glistening on her mouth.

Now, what he had left was a mess: a life with a wife he’d more or less tricked, who was officially doomed to only stay three months with him. She had spent the first nine months of their marriage—such as it was—with her mother. Then, she had been back in the underworld for all of a week, and he had seen her perhaps twice, as she preferred to spend her days in the Elysium gardens that he could not quite find the courage to follow her into. They slept in different rooms at night, and he could not bring himself to force her hand any more than he already had. Their marriage remained unconsummated. 

He allowed that to continue for a week of the precious twelve a year he would have her, figuring she would come for him eventually, would talk to him eventually, give him some clue as to how she felt _eventually_. But she didn't. 

And so, his hand was forced.

He did what he felt he must do to make things between them right. He offered her his heart and his soul, and prepared for failure; that she would not take his offer to re-address the wrongs he had inflicted upon her. What he offered was simple: rather than let him take her virginity, he would allow her to take his. A way to make up for the wrongs committed, to even the score, he'd explained. She could give him all the pain she wanted; he would take it gladly. And after that, then, they would be on the same level, and could negotiate their marriage as equals. It was an unusual, if kind, offer. The obvious play for her to make was to decline the act, but accept the renegotiation. He had not expected her to take him up on it. Had not _planned_ on her taking him up on it.

Instead, she had stood, blushing, and she had nodded. At his offer to bend for her, she had smiled, and promised to come to his room that night in a half-mumbled slur of words that felt like the finest poetry he had ever heard. 

And then she had gone, vanishing back into the tall elms and oaks the underworld favored, and he had sat stunned, unsure as to what would come next.

Except, damningly, he knew all too well. 

* * *

And that night, she came. As promised, his wife arrived with a whisper, slipping through his—perhaps, maybe, one day, _their—_bedchambers like a ghostly shade, her robes hung loosely over her skin.

She closed the door behind her, locking it with a momentous, thunderous _click. _He laid back on his bed, legs spread open like a sacrifice, waiting for her. He hadn’t bothered to redress after his evening bath; his skin glistened, and he hoped he looked appealing for her. He had spent a couple of hours slicking his hair back into some form of fashion he hoped was beguiling; she did not seem to find him horrid, after all. She _had _taken his pomegranate stained kiss, and he clung to this as she stared at him.

She stood, frozen, at the door, and he gestured her toward the bed. She took one step, then two. He patted the bed again, and she delicately placed herself on it, her skin so blushed-sweet she looked like she had painted her skin in a dusky strawberry wine. She was wonderfully warm, in his bed, the spring-time breeze wafting from her equally welcoming. He shivered. He leaned closer, offered his hand. "Hello," he said, through a dry voice. 

"Hello," she said, her voice, as always, a sweet little bell-sound that belied her strength. _No, I will not eat today_, that little voice had said the day he had taken her down to the Underworld. And he had thought she would bend, but she had kept her word, until the point when he had forced her choice, tricking her with honey-sweet treats. Now, she would have her revenge. She stared at him, biting her lip. Slowly, _infinitely_ slowly, she reached out toward him. He did not dare to move as her hand reached toward him in the most tantalizing of fashions. She made contact, and he bit back a gasp as she ran a hand up his calf in curiosity. She was not so uncomfortable with his nakedness, it seemed, as he thought she might be.

“I haven’t done this before,” she said, a smile on her face; he nodded gravely. Of course, she had not; she was barely a wisp of a woman when he'd stolen her. And he _had_ stolen her; his stomach twisted in guilt. She'd never had the opportunity to have another before her marriage. "Especially..." She faltered, a moment, her mouth forming a pert bud. "I've never even _heard_ of this way."

“And I have never allowed a woman to have me in such a way,” he admitted. He reached out a hand toward hers, as slowly as she had reached for his calf. She did not look toward it, nor did she take him up on the outstretched hand. She stared deeply at the wall, as if it would somehow come to her aid, instead.

It did not help. “We are on even ground,” he murmured, trying to sound soothing. She looked at him, eyes narrowed in distrust. Of course, she was within her rights to distrust a robber who had only gained her hand through chicanery. _Well_ within her rights. He had no expectation to elicit anything but a disappointment.

And yet – he had dared to hope. And yet he felt his own sense of disappointment when she looked at him blankly.

"It's...I looked in your library..." She mumbled, then focused on finding room between his legs instead of maintaining any kind of eye contact. He had looked in his library, too; there were some papyri there that helped elucidate some details of such...esoteric couplings. 

"It is _your_ library, too," he said, gently trying to remind her she had gotten _something_ out of his arrangement. Her hand brushed his inner thigh; his cock twitched. The look on her face was curious, eyes attentive. He hoped she found him pleasing. He could only _hope_ that. He certainly did not deserve any kind thoughts she might think of him.

“Are you ready?” he asked; he was eager to get this over. He had said he would suffer for her, and he would. He had not expected her to want such vengeance, but she had, and he would suffer and hope something in his suffering rendered her heart to pity her husband.

She bit her lip as she nodded. He watched as she shifted to disrobe—and he absolutely did watch when she disrobed; how could he not, with her looking every bit a goddess? He had always thought her beautiful. He had loved her from afar long before she formed his name upon her lips.

As she shifted her robes, the fabric fell upon his bedchamber’s floor in a flurry of ravenous silk. He saw, for the first time, the lovely pert breasts of her youthful figure, then the pleasing bend of her hips. Finally, his eyes drifted down to her slit, which was hidden away by a leather girdle that hid much of her sex. He wasn’t sure where she’d gotten it—perhaps she had stolen a bridle from his stables and reassembled it for her own fashion. Perhaps she made it herself.

“I should like to give you a kiss first,” she said, her voice a soft bell-tinkle that none the less echoed like thunder. "It seems like a kiss should come before..._before_." 

He jerked his head up in surprise; He had only kissed her once, secreting the seeds from his mouth to her own. The experience left him more confused than elucidated as to how she felt about him. She had leaned into it, but it was not exactly a kiss of passion. It was more bittersweet than that, a kiss tasting of regret, of what could _have been_ rather than a kiss of what _was_. Still, now she was offering him another chance, and Hades, for all his many, many failings, was no idiot. He would allow himself to be punished as much as she wished if she would forgive him, and if she offered him a tiny olive branch, he would take it with both arms gladly.

Or...other orifices, as it were.

She leaned down with a soft frown on her face and he nodded. _Kiss me_, he thought, and he might have said, he wasn't sure; the only thing he heard was the movement of her lithe body on his own, the touch of her lips against his. Her body was _warm, _and he delighted in the sense of her soft skin against his own as he folded his arms around her. She kissed him; the kiss was light and clearly experimental but made without fear. _Progress_.

He hoped.

He tangled his hand in her hair as she pressed another kiss to him, his cock already hardening at the hint of her touch. He gently stroked her hair, hoping that she understood in the gentle touch what he meant to prove by allowing her to do this: what greater sacrifice could he offer, to prove he loved her? How else could he tell her that he would have done anything to be with her, even trick her, just to hold her hand for eternity? That no matter what their relationship was now, the choice had been worth it, even if the guilt of his deceit had left the Erinyes dancing upon his brow?

“Now?” She murmured; there was a heat to her, a welcome fire that burned him; whether it was his guilt or his desire he could not say, but she fanned the flames of his torment, leaning into him, her body heat immolating as her hands grasped his thighs. He had never thought of doing such a thing, but her—it was not, entirely, unappealing, as a concept.

“Now,” he agreed. If a bit of lust slipped into his voice, he did not comment.

She held out a hand and slowly formed a bit of blossoming wood; he watched as she stirred it effortlessly, her powers creating a woody branch, molding it. It was softwood, he was relieved to see, and she smoothed it, stripping the bark and rounding it between her fingers until her magic rendered it smoothed and polished.

She worked her phallus, bending the end facing her until she could attach it to her belt; it was not too large a phallus, one made that was at best maybe half the size of his own. He wordlessly handed her a small jar of olive oil; she poured on an amount that was frankly almost wasteful, but he wouldn’t criticize her overzealous application.

He wanted to ask her to be gentle. He wanted to ask her if she was sure. He did neither, just moving his legs further apart.

“In front or behind?” She asked and her voice was soft, gentle. He wanted to tell her to take him from behind, to be spared seeing her face to face. He shook his head.

"Your choice." He would give her that. She pressed her lips in thought. 

“I think I would like to see you.” No mercy, then.

He steeled himself as she moved things around to her choosing; she placed a pillow under his hips to help her align, and he gasped in a rushed cacophony of emotion as she slowly dripped more oil onto him. It dribbled down his thighs; it would stain their sheets.

“I think it would be easier if you'd let me lift your legs,” she muttered; he nodded his assent.

“Okay,” she said; she grasped one of his broad legs, studying the tense muscles for a moment. She gave him a long caress down his leg as she brought it up over her shoulder. She was small enough she looked ridiculous with half his legs dangled over, but it seemed comfortable enough she did not switch position.

“Relax,” she said, her voice so soft he could barely hear her. She leaned into his leg in a shy caress, and in such vulnerable circumstances, it was everything to him, this one brief moment of tenderness. He wished he could reach out to hold her hand, but he knew a burglar could not seek aid from their victim. She bit her lip in concentration as she spread his ass and he couldn’t possibly interpret the look on her face: cheeks blushed, eyes dark and heady, ruby lips bit in concentration. He helped her nudged her little phallus to his entrance, and he thought: now, she would get even.

It was his pain to bear. He winced as he helped her prepare to sodomize him. The fire she pressed into him would hurt, he had no doubt of that, but it would be cleansing. They would each have taken something sacred now; something they could not replace. They would be even. 

She pressed in. He felt the entrance, and small as his eyes had judged her little cock, his ass raised considerably more protest. It hurt. He had not thought a woman would hold such pain in these things, but now he felt sympathy toward any woman who had welcomed a man into her most private spaces; it felt like pressure, intense pressure, like the sides of his father holding him and his siblings – he took a deep breath, looked at her instead. Her eyes were lidded, mouth a little open as she slowly lowered her pseudo-cock into him.

He wanted to tell her to slow, to stop; he hissed instead and ground to her: “More. Bury it.”

“Oh.” She angled her hips forward faster, impaled him on her cock with a restless fury. She did not stop until he felt the heat of her hips pressed down to his ass. She leaned more over him, seeking leverage; her oiled phallus lit a strange spark within him that left him unsure as to whether he was being called to void or to orgasm painfully; either way, his cock felt too full and simultaneously empty, without the warm squeeze of a woman's body upon his own.

He felt the blossoming of pain/pleasure unfurl deeper as she pulled nearly out of him. He shut his eyes as she withdrew, hiding a wince as she moved it back again. She didn’t give it to him gently; her little hips moved with a frantic zeal from the start, burying her whittled cock into his asshole. This was how their marriage made her feel, he thought, and he was sad about his sudden awareness of how she had suffered. He had filled her life up with his own desires; now she was stretching him in torture no doubt formed by her hunger over months of captivity.

“Keep going,” he murmured, and go she did. It burned, the tight ring of muscles protesting as she moved into him, striking against him.

“Faster,” he choked out; she nodded diligently, increased her hips speed as she clumsily rammed the phallus into him.

“Do you want me to….?” She panted, making a hand gesture that was unmistakable in its origins: _do you want me to stimulate you? _His cock ached, full and needing fulfillment, and before he could tell her not to bother, her oil-slick hand wrapped around him. She made a movement that he wasn’t sure of, her free hand stroking at his thigh, then just lightly tickling the edge of his cock while the other hand pumped him for all he was worth. He shivered. At first, he wanted to tell her he was not worthy of her mercy, but then she squeezed his cock, the grip tight, and he realized this was a new form of torture.

Her hand was fast, his hips unable to do anything but rock back and forth at the speed of her hips. It was his right, he told himself. He had expected the pain. He needed to take the pain, if she would be able to forgive him by doing it.

She moved her hips again, jutted into him and filled him; she shifted her body, moving, and now her new little cock hit the strange point where she was inducing the feeling of warmth all over his body again and again, like she held lightning that was at play over all his bones and all too quickly bringing him to a state of oversaturation. His breath hitched as her hips went _hard_ and his brain all but stopped. He could not breathe, he could not move and yet he heard a voice and it was his voice scraped raw, and he felt a shiver and realized it was him who was shaking. He came, the white-hot sensation taking him entirely by surprise.

“Oh!” He heard her say, and when he came back to himself, the first thing he saw was her hand, messy with the viscose, white proof of his own orgasm. He’d come too fast.

She’d barely had minutes to punish him. It wasn’t enough. Her face, the ample confusion write large in her puzzled brow; it was proof enough. He growled in frustration and she winced. Her hand withdrew from his cock; he grabbed for a bit of cloth he’d left at the side of the bed and she wiped her hand on it, then awkwardly placed it to the side.

“I apologize. I…couldn’t stop it.” He spread his legs wider wantonly, and he hated himself. “Again.”

“Oh.” She still sounded confused. “But you already came. Was it too intense?”

“No,” he said, refusing to look at her, knowing his voice would wobble if the divine grace of her form entered his eyes. “There is no limit to what you can do to me. Harder. Faster. A larger cock if you wish, make me _bleed_ if you must. I will be here for as much as you want. I am your immortal husband, and whatsoever you do to me, I cannot die...And I will thank you for it.” He tried to grin, but could not resist looking upon her from the corner of his eye. His grin quickly faded as he did. Her look was nothing so much as resigned.

“Alright,” she said, her sonorous voice clanging in a nervous note. She shifted, her hand stroking the phallus attached to her leather band, and for a moment he wondered, until she realigned the head of her phallus with his entrance. She’d made it easily twice the size, and nothing in his immortal life quite prepared him for the painful stretch, the deep fullness that shook his legs.

She did not ask of his comfort this time; he was thankful for that for he feared he might not be able to lie to her once more. She moved her hips faster, stuffed him more, deeper and harder than before; he gasped, panting, her huge cock agonizingly large and echoing through every inch of his passage. He felt the heat in his cock build and nearly exploded, white heat arching through his body. “No,” he muttered; he needed almost to suffer properly.

Her hand dug into his hips, hard enough to welt, and she put her head down, hissing out of tightly clenched teeth. He was thankful for the pain, distracting from the pleasure-pain, from the heady heat that echoed through his cock, his ass. He tried to think of any thought that could delay the inevitable. He needed to hold out. He needed to provide her with what she needed.

He thought of the Titanomachy. He thought of the Gigantomachy. He thought of his exile, his father, and every ugly thought he had ever held. And instead of pleading mercy, his grip tightened on her little hip, and he said, only: “More.”

Because it hurt. Because it _should_ hurt. Because she needed him to hurt.

He nodded at her and she pushed harder; her odd sort of pleasure-pain, and there was a pleasure-shock that was almost equally painful in his spine.

“More?” she whispered.

And he said, only: “More.”

She redoubled her efforts, and he tried to hold out, but he couldn’t; not with her stroking his cock with a tight grip, not with her phallus wedged up in his ass so fully he could barely breathe.

His hips moved of his own volition; she matched his rhythm, going deep on every thrust, and it burned, and he wanted so much of her, wanted to reach out to her, wanted her to choose him. He loved her. He wanted to tell her.

He didn’t dare to. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, for only ragged gasps escaped his lips. He came for a second time with an embarrassing high cry, the pleasure overwhelming the pain.

“More?” She asked, and he heard the tension in her voice; yes, more, he thought, _more_. If she desired it, she would have it.

And so he told her, through choked teeth, _yes, _when what he wanted is to tell her was _no_.

She nodded, her face resolute as she slapped at his skin, flipped him onto his back and re-entered him at an angle that was somehow more painfully filling. She was growing more confident at this game now, trusting him to follow her lead. He could not tell if it was her angle or if she had increased the size of her phallus yet again, but whatever it was, the ring of muscles in him stretched nearly beyond his capacity to hold.

“Like this?” she murmured. She moved her palms to his shoulder.

“Yes,” he whimpered. He would take what he deserved.

And she gave it to him. She rode him hard, her body half nestled on top of his own, her fingertips so tight that he felt the deep bruises she was building in him.

Her hands slipped and he felt her fingernails drag into the skin of his back. He felt the hot drop of his own ichor bubble out from the scratch and she gasped.

“I-“ Her bell-voice glimmered in alarm; he reached out one hand behind him, caught her arm.

“More,” he ground out. “You can’t kill me.”

She gripped his shoulders, dragged her fingernails down his back, the razor-sharp pain of a goddesses' hands only the slightest distraction from the white-hot heat of her cock hammering him hard. He shuddered underneath her but she did not cease to run her hands down her back until light trails of ichor ran down in rivulets.He was sure he had perhaps stained the sheets below with the heady mixture of his blood, his sweat, and his come, for she was forcing all of it out of him. 

And still, they kept moving. His world shuddered into a small space, only her and him and this bed. There was nothing to his senses but her. She leaned over his back, her panting in his hot ear as she wrapped her arms around him, still moving and moving until she was smeared in his blood, and she was out of breath, and she was panting and he was straining and she was _everything_ to him, _everything_ around him was her, from his blood to his bed to his body. _He_ was hers. 

He came a third time with more of a whine than a shout, the torrent of come almost painful; she pulled out, turned him over onto his own bed. He hurt too much to protest that the blood would stain as she curled into his side.

“Are we good?” He murmured, and she did not answer. His heart plunged in fear that this was not enough.

She wiggled upwards, undoing her harness and letting it fall. And still she said nothing.

She did not answer for a long moment, and he spent a seeming eternity waiting for a word to cross her carmine lips.

After a moment, she slung her hips over his belly, sitting on top of him with a rich blush on her face. “I need…” she blushed, and he nodded.

“Whatever you need,” he murmured. “Take it.”

She shifted backward, to his surprise, and took his cock in her hands. It hardened rapidily despite his exhaustion; he had wanted her too long for pain and endurance to matter. She aligned im with her silky entrance with her hand. He had not quite the sense of what was happening until she sunk herself down upon him; he hissed as she forced them together, her walls tight and wet and _warm._

He groaned, unable to do much else. She rocked back and forth, the movements small and tender. “Please,” she said, her voice so achingly lovely. She put her hands on his chest, repeated the word, again and again, _Please, please, please. _It was a strange soft mewl and he rocked up against her, the gentle lovemaking only pleasurable despite his exhaustion.

He felt his orgasm come slower, this time; he was tired and relieved, eager not to come too early upon her gates. Perhaps she needed this healing as much as he did; she grabbed his hands and forced them to her breasts, crying out in the sweetest noise he’d ever heard as he took them in his fingers.

He was content to explore her in such a fashion for a time; keep his hands on her breasts and her hips, the hold only the lightest of touches. Her arms were on his chest, using them for balance as she slowly rocked toward him. She leaned forward a bit more, picking up speed, and moaned. It was, he thought, the most erotic sound he had ever heard.

How he loved her. “I love you,” he wanted to say, but he didn’t. They were perhaps not to such a stage yet.

She grabbed one of his hands, tugged it low to the sweet, slick heat of her entrance. He gave her what she needed: she was wet, very wet, and she bit her lip as she let his fingertips bring her to her peak. She gave soft little puffs in each movement of his fingers; he was gentle, gentle, stroking her skin with all the softness he could.

She looked at him, a heavy blush upon her cheeks, and shuddered.

He took a risk, and ignoring the protests of pain that coursed down his back and his ass, he rose and leaned in to kiss her. She wrapped her hands around his head and made a noise that sounded more like a sob than anything else. He flickered his thumb over the nub at the tip of her sex; she closed her eyes, biting her lips in exquisite agony. He wondered if she saw a different lover, a dream lover. It did not matter. He only saw her in his bed.

She came quickly at his ministrations – he, too, had studied – and she came with a long and consuming shudder. He was close behind, needing only two more thrusts to finish inside her.

She moved off him quickly and flopped onto her own back, as winded as he. He stared at her, hoping she would not move. Despite the aches and pains that coursed through his body, he would take it as a victory if she didn’t disappear to another room today. Perhaps if she spent a night here, tomorrow she might not cry for a mother, for a life, that he could not give her.

He did not dare to speak. Neither did she. She curled into his shoulder but kept her eyes shut. She drifted off to sleep in his bed surprisingly quickly; perhaps it would be their bed, someday.

He curled his arms around her and he heard her snore. The position was uncomfortable, but he didn’t dare to move her, even as she drooled on his shoulder in a most un-divine fashion.

“I hope one day you will forgive me,” he murmured. He was bolder with his words when she was asleep. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you.”

She said nothing. Perhaps one day, if he was lucky, she would forgive him. Perhaps, one day, if he was brave, he would say it to her face.

But he didn’t believe that she had forgiven him, not quite yet. He wouldn't allow himself to plead his love when she was awake, for he feared losing it. She had never answered his question. He was not a fool.

But for now, he would take the comfort of the moment, and try to believe that, perhaps, one day she could say the words back to him. They had eternity, after all, measured in three-month increments. 


End file.
